of some flirty reply. The heavy glass door that led to Alberta Street swung open. It was 6:58 and Violet was first as usual, holding the door open for the herd of knitters. Not the steady trickle of a breakfast or lunch rush but twenty-plus women, all obsessed with punctuality and festooned with hats, scarves, and knit vests. Each ordered drinks for here with the sort of lengthy deliberation of someone who only ordered one coffee a week.
An older woman with the look and demeanor of a no-nonsense teacher, Violet made it her business to keep her fellow knitters in line. Knit Night was the brainchild of Iplik, the yarn store just down the street from us on Alberta, but Violet was the weekly event’s unofficial hostess. As usual, she started giving her comrades orders about table rearrangement.
The People’s Cup wasn’t huge by any means, and Knit Night tended to fill the joint up. The space was longer than it was wide, with couches in front of the plate glass window, the coffee bar running along one wall, tables in the middle of the room, and a long wooden farmhouse bench and table for communal seating in the back of the room. The Knit Night ladies liked to turn the couches around and group the center tables together, creating a setup conducive to conversation but a tripping hazard for the rest of the patrons. And the arrangement resulted in an unholy din really, especially on nights when their ranks swelled to thirty or more.
“Remember to keep the aisle clear,” I said to Violet and her minions. I’d warned them about creating tripping hazards with their knitting gear, but it was as futile as telling the twins and Jonas to keep their Legos in one area. Like my siblings, the ladies loved to spread out their projects.
“What’ll it be?” I swung back to the register, no closer to having the right banter for the stranger, but no longer in a position to care. However, he’d stepped aside for Violet and her herbal tea order.
“I’ll be back when the line clears,” he said with a wink. He had a leather messenger bag, the sort meant to look like something Indiana Jones would haul around, for which one paid for every crinkle in the distressed finish. He’d probably come in wanting a quiet place to work.
He had the look and accent of a displaced New Yorker—working some cushy freelance job, no doubt. I liked thinking up little stories about my customers, but I didn’t bother coming up with a lengthy one for him. He wouldn’t be back once he saw how loud Knit Night got. And the ladies were likely to pester him about his intricately knit scarf with its pattern of interwoven cables. One time, I’d made the mistake of wearing a wool beanie I’d found for a buck at the thrift store. Every single knitter needed to remark on its construction. Dude was so going to be beating feet once Knit Night got underway.
Without a coworker, I was slammed, having to work both the register and the machine. While it kept me hopping, I didn’t lose my rhythm until the triplets showed up.
They weren’t really triplets. That’s what I called them in my head—three middle-aged women who apparently texted each other every week to coordinate their outfits. This week it was cardigans—one yellow, one pink, one green—all in a similarly complex knit pattern. Each woman had long, grayish-brown hair, all carried identical hemp knitting bags, and they all were incapable of making a decision.
“Now, ladies, what are we ordering this week?” the first asked the other two. “I was thinking mochas?”
“Oh, I was thinking chai,” said the second.
“Don’t we want lattes?” the third asked. They couldn’t each order to their own preference. No, they had to agree on that week’s beverage, something they couldn’t seem to do prior to holding up the line.
“Oh, yes,” the first said. “We want some of Brady’s art.”
I immediately started thinking of what bit of whimsy would make the triplets happy. The smiley faces were better suited for the teen girls, but I could come up with something special just for the ladies. I was good at that, and the detail-oriented work itself always soothed me, even when the shop was busy. But what drove me batty was how the triplets were prone to changing their order as soon as I had it straight in my head.
Yellow gets skim.
Pink gets half caf.
Green gets picky.
Brady gets distracted by the sexy stranger texting on his shiny smartphone in the rear of the store…No time for that. I moved quicker, trying to ignore the fact that my eyeballs wanted to track his every movement.
“No, wait.” Yellow cardigan stopped me in midpour. “Did I remember to say decaf?”
“Nope.” I dumped the cup, ready to start over.
“And mine is sugar-free, too,” Pink added.
Buzz. My apron vibrated against my thigh again. Behind the triplets, the line was at least ten deep. Damn it, Renee. Just handle the kids. Please.
Finally I had the three of them set. Green took a sip, then held out the cup. “Is this coconut?”
“You said nondairy, nonsoy?” I took the cup back.
“I meant almond breve.” She sighed, like I should have gotten that at first, and if I wasn’t distracted by what was going on back home, I would have remembered to ask her which nondairy, nonsoy option she wanted.
“Here, let me try again.” I had just finished her new drink, complete with a leaf design in the foam, when a loud crash rattled the whole shop.
A two-seat table had tipped over, sending two coffees flying and leaving two women in tears.
“My Fair Isle sweater!” The younger of the two, a pixie with platinum hair and a hook nose, held up a dripping garment with half a dozen colors of yarn, still on long needles connected by a cable. “I’ve worked six months on this!”
“I’m sorry!” The rainbow-haired young woman in a roller derby T-shirt had tears streaming down her face.
“You never look!” The first wasn’t having any apology.
“Hey, my hat got ruined, too!”
“Ladies.” I stepped out from behind the counter, grabbing the mop we stashed against the wall. I approached the mess and tried to inject some patience in my voice as I said, “Maybe if you didn’t move the table—”
“And what business is it of yours?” Oh, Miss Fair Isle was pissed and she was turning it all on me and the other knitter.
“Brady! Can we order?” someone called from the line at the counter.
“Did you forget to sweeten this one?” Green cardigan triplet was apparently still not happy, but I ignored her to set the fallen two-top to rights. As I straightened, I noticed a pair of expensive-looking desert boots: the brown leather staples of all Portland hipster men. And as my gaze traveled upward, I took in the handsome stranger who had somehow managed to find his way right into the middle of the Knit Night chaos.
“Is this always so…boisterous?” he said with a faint curl to his gorgeous full mouth.
“’Fraid so. Welcome to Knit Night.” I finally gave in to that heavy sigh I’d been holding in for the last hour.
“It is not so bad.” His lips curled as his gaze latched onto mine, not breaking away.
He didn’t move, and I didn’t scurry back to the counter like I should have. The air felt charged—
“Debbie. You ruined my Fair Isle! Two hundred dollars’ worth of yarn! Ruined!” Anger. That’s what the air was charged with. Fair Isle lady wasn’t letting it go and was all up in the roller derby girl’s personal space again.
Buzz. My leg vibrated yet again, this time the steady pulse of a missed call. This just wasn’t my night. I had no idea when I’d get a chance to breathe, let alone check the latest message. A solo Knit Night was proving to be a special kind of hell. And, of course, the most attractive man I’d seen in weeks had to be dropped right into the middle of it. I gave him five more minutes before he scurried out to the chain place down